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It wasn’t until Joanna was approaching Stamford that she began to second guess her decision. She hadn’t made any arrangements—the easiest thing, of course, would be to find a hotel, but that was more money than she was prepared to spend, not to mention the fact that using her credit card would alert Erik to her whereabouts, and she didn’t want that. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him; she just didn’t want the distraction of him for a few days. Shoshana would let her stay at a moment’s notice, but she would also tell Erik she was there—and she would want to go over and over everything, analyzing every moment of the last six months, in her well-intended attempt to help Joanna deal with it.
That was the last thing she wanted.
At this point, it was almost four o’clock in the evening, and she’d been on the road for about seven hours. She didn’t want to change her mind. She tightened her hands on the steering wheel and kept her eyes trained on the road ahead of her, telling herself she would figure it out.
When she saw the first sign for Brooklyn, she took it and breathed a sigh of relief that she was finally off the interstate. It was about ten or fifteen minutes before she found a parking spot close enough to a coffee shop to pull over, but, soon enough, she was sitting at a little table outside, enjoying an enormous grilled cheese sandwich on sourdough bread and a raspberry soda. The people streaming past her and the snippets of overheard conversations blurred into a soothing mass, the sun streamed down from behind a nearby rooftop and shone directly on her face; for the first time in months, she was breathing all the way into her lungs.
And then—“Jo?”
She looked up; the man in front of her was silhouetted in sunlight, and she couldn’t see him until she put up a hand to shade her eyes and he took a step forward.
“Max?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said, grinning. He pulled out the seat across from her and sat down. He held a cigarette in his hand and blew a stream of smoke over her head. She reeled at the incongruity of having run into him here, of all places. And then she remembered their last conversation, almost a year ago already, when he had told her he was moving to Brooklyn. Was it possible that she had subconsciously hoped she’d run into him? Because he was the perfect person for her right now: he wouldn’t ask any questions, and he would never tell Erik where she was.
He was still grinning at her, and she realized she hadn’t answered his question.
“Actually…” she pushed the plate to the side and folded her arms on the table, leaning forward. “I need a place to stay for a couple of days.”
He cocked his head, the cigarette now hanging in the corner of his lips. “What’s up?”
Now that she was having the conversation, she wasn’t sure how to navigate this, so she just blurted out the truth. “I need some space.”
Max didn’t respond right away. He glanced at the street behind her, as if making sure she was alone, and then looked at her face for a long time. She’d forgotten that habit of his; it was just as unnerving now as it had been in high school. She realized, too, that she was significantly heavier than she’d been the last time he’d seen her. She wasn’t sure how to feel about this, but she decided to be grateful—at least she wouldn’t have to worry about him hitting on her.
“No Erik?” he asked finally. She shook her head. “Trouble in paradise?” He didn’t sound sympathetic. She sighed.
“It’s a long story. It’d just be for a few days, just so I can clear my head. I’ll keep to myself; you won’t even know I’m here.”
Max watched her for another few moments. If she’d been thinking clearly when he’d shown up, she would have made up some story about a hotel room that’d fallen through or a fight with a friend. Something.
Finally, Max shrugged and said sure. “Did you drive?” Joanna pointed out her car across the street. He gave her directions to a nearby garage and then to his apartment and told her he’d meet her there. He stood up, and the conversation was clearly—and abruptly—over.
Less than an hour later, Joanna was walking up the stairs to Max’s apartment. Halfway up, she ran into Jess, Max’s sister, who was coming down. “Hey, Joey!” she said. “Max said he ran into you.” She gave Joanna a strange look; Joanna wondered what, exactly, Max had said. The moment between them stretched awkwardly, but Jess eventually just gave Joanna a quick wave and jogged down the rest of the steps. Joanna shook off the encounter and made her way upstairs.
Max had changed into sweatpants with no socks or shirt. He was leaning against the doorway when she got upstairs. He pushed himself off the frame as she approached and stood back, gesturing for her to walk inside ahead of him.
“Hungry?” he asked, closing the door and walking past her, to his desk in the corner. “I was just about to order some Chinese.”
“Sure,” she said, though the sandwich had filled her up nicely.
The room she’d entered felt spacious and airy, with a couch along one wall, a small table with four chairs in the middle, and a small kitchen—just fridge, range, counter, and cupboards—along the opposite wall. There was a bedroom and small bathroom off the main room in one direction and another bedroom in the other direction.
“Um, where can I put my stuff?”
Barely glancing up from his phone, Max pointed in the direction of the bedroom farther from the bathroom. She walked past him, her eyes scanning the artwork that covered the walls. There was lots of black and white photography, some framed vintage advertisements, a nearly life-sized 90s-era poster of Cindy Crawford. Cool guy, she thought, rolling her eyes. She missed Erik’s subtler style and wondered whether these were Max’s pictures or his friend’s.
The bedroom was adequate, but no care had been taken to make it particularly welcoming. There was a futon, folded out, against the wall, with blue sheets and a white blanket; a tall, narrow dresser in the corner; a closet with mirrored sliding doors. Still, it was free, and it was available. It would do.
She sat on the bed and took in her surroundings. The woman in the reflection across from her was barely recognizable. She wanted to see herself in her face again. That’s what she was doing here. Once she saw herself in the mirror, she could go home and be what Erik deserved. She hoped she could do it quickly; she was already missing him.
“You want a drink?” Max said, coming to her doorway and interrupting her thoughts. She blinked and turned her face to him.
“Yes, please.”
+++
If Joanna were a certain kind of person, or if she’d had a certain kind of ulterior motive, she would have allowed herself to get completely trashed with Max that night. It was certainly tempting, to wipe out her mind so thoroughly, to rid herself of the responsibility for her actions, to let loose as an adult in a way she’d never allowed herself to as a child.
But she wasn’t that kind of person, and she didn’t have any ulterior motives so, instead, she limited herself to one shot and then spent the rest of the evening picking at her dumplings and rice and nursing a glass of wine. They played some old CDs and sang along; Joanna listened to Max talk about his writing and his other work; she ducked his questions and changed subjects on a dime; she went to bed before 10.
Even so, she woke up the next morning with a pounding head and waves roiling her stomach. It had been too much the day before, she thought: too much sun, too much salt, too much grease, too much…too much. It was about 8:30, and Max was already gone, having left a note for her on the counter: I’ll be writing all day at the coffee shop on the corner. Feel free to use the extra key in the medicine cabinet and do your thing. I’ll be home around 7. His phone number was scrawled across the bottom. She got herself a bottle of water from the refrigerator, found some Tylenol for her headache, went to the bathroom, and got back in bed.
It was a little after noon when she finally woke up, for real this time. The water and Tylenol still sat on the floor next to her bed. Her head still hurt, but the worst of it was gone. She took a shower and made herself a piece of toast with butter and jam. Then, armed with the Tylenol and the water, she grabbed her purse and the key and left.
+++
The sun blazed outside, and she’d forgotten her sunglasses. That was her first thought upon stepping out of the apartment. But, as she walked, she acclimated and remembered how easy it was to get lost in New York. After the baby, and after all those months of being too scared to look Erik in the eye, it was soothing to be only one of many in this sea. She had no plan; she meandered aimlessly for a long time, but eventually, she passed Grand Army Plaza and entered Prospect Park. The afternoon passed, and she walked through as much of the park as she could before finally sitting down on a bench to watch the lives playing out in front of her. She took a deep breath and sat back.
Over the course of the waning evening and the sunset, Joanna let her mind wander, emptying it out. Her legs ached with more exertion than they’d had in months, and her stomach growled with hunger, but she didn’t want to move until she had to.
Eventually, as the world around her got darker, she acknowledged that she felt marginally more balanced than she had in a long time. Maybe it was the fresh air, or maybe it was the change of scenery, or maybe it was the people watching, but she could imagine herself nearing normal for the first time since the miscarriage. She stood up and stretched her arms over her heard, sucking in her breath at the sudden cramping in her muscles.
I knew this would work, she thought. A few more days here, and she would be good again, and she could go home.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and turned it on as she walked back toward the Plaza. Her heart, so calm only a moment before, started pounding when she saw what she’d missed: eight missed calls, four voicemails, and thirteen text messages:
Joanna, where are you? Please—call me.
Baby, I’m worried about you. Call me.
What’s going on? come home so we can talk.
Joey WHAT IS GOING ON??? Erik just called me in a panic—what happened???
Joanna, I love you, and I want you to come home.
I’m trying not to get pissed, but what the hell is this?
There were four messages in a row that were simply heart emojis, and then:
J, you’ve GOT TO CALL ME! Erik is FREAKING OUT! CALL ME!!!
What makes you think I haven’t wanted “some space” in the last six months? Grownups don’t do this—please come home.
Give me one good reason not to track you down and find you and bring you home.
The voicemails weren’t much better:
Two o’clock that morning: Baby, it’s me. This is bullshit. Come home.
Ten o’clock that morning: Jo—um, Erik just called me and asked if you told me you were leaving. Did you leave? Are you crazy? Go home!
Seven o’clock that evening: Joanna, I’m on my way home from work. What a fucking waste of a day. I hope you’ll be there when I get back. A deep sigh and then, Baby, I don’t know how to help you, but I want to. Let me.
And then, eight o’clock that evening: I lost a baby too, Joanna.
That one hurt.
+++
The apartment was quiet when Joanna walked in. There was a lamp on by the kitchen sink, and the bathroom light was on, but everything else was off, and Max’s bedroom door was closed. Joanna heated up some of the Chinese and ate, halfheartedly, standing at the sink.
At the hospital, after the miscarriage, she had heard through the fog in her head as the doctor and nurses had told Erik, over and over again, “You take care of her. Whatever she needs.” And Erik had nodded, over and over again.
No one had thought to tell her to take care of Erik. And, for better or worse, it hadn’t occurred to her either.
She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home so much.
The food felt like a stone in the pit of her stomach. She’d eaten less than half, but she dumped the rest in the garbage and took a shower, disgusted. By the time she’d dried off and put her pajamas on, she’d made a decision: she would leave tomorrow. She’d go home. Maybe she had really blown it, but she would just go home and beg Erik to take her back and hope for the best.